


cold, your toes against my knee (warm, your hand in mine)

by dames_for_jamesbarnes



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Mike Dodds Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Winter, deTECTIVE READER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes
Summary: november starts to fade, and mike feels the aches. they’ll always be there, because physical therapy can’t fix everything, and they’ll linger as long as he wakes up afraid of the snow outside. he trembles as he moves through his apartment, not thinking about the sleep he’ll inevitably sink into. it’s voluntary this one, and the bed isn’t in a damn hospital with ten blankets piled up –never mind.
Relationships: Mike Dodds/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	cold, your toes against my knee (warm, your hand in mine)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mentions of gun violence, scars, blood, hospital scenes, flashbacks. if i forgot to tag anything please tell me!

you meet mike dodds on a beautiful fall day, some kind of conference that you get pulled along to with lieutenant benson. when she sees him across the way, her voice calls out to him, and he responds with an eager smile, a fervent shake of her hand in place of a hug. professional settings and all that.

“mike dodds, this is one of our newest transfers,” benson says, and her voice is warm, gesturing to you. he turns to face you, and you have to blink when he smiles full-force at you, taken aback by the earnest way it hits you. but you recover.

“lieutenant dodds,” you say with a grin, offering your hand. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“only the bad stuff, i’m sure,” he offers, and your chuckle is light, shaking your head.

“well, my partner _is_ sonny carisi,” you return, and he’s able to laugh in return.

-

november starts to fade, and mike feels the aches. they’ll always be there, because physical therapy can’t fix everything, and they’ll linger as long as he wakes up afraid of the snow outside. he trembles as he moves through his apartment, not thinking about the sleep he’ll inevitably sink into. it’s voluntary this one, and the bed isn’t in a damn hospital with ten blankets piled up –

never mind.

the gas bill is outrageous. he turns the heat up another degree. just until he leaves the house. 

“sweetheart,” you call out, and when he turns it’s with a small smile. your arms reach to wrap around him from behind, and while your head can’t rest on his shoulder, you let your face press into it. he can feel your kiss even through the layers.

“just for a few minutes,” he starts, feeling self-conscious, and your smile is evident in the sound of your voice.

“hey, you’re okay,” you tell him, and every time you say it, it seems a little truer. did you put on a thermal this morning?”

at first, he’s certain he did. and then his fingers lift to his neck, where his shirt collar is unbuttoned. no tie yet, and he’s able to feel bare skin. he turns to face you, so you can see where his collarbone is, and with a little chuckle you push to kiss the spot before cupping his cheek with your hand.

“while i do enjoy the little look… you want the white one or the gray one?"

he thinks on it, the whole time focusing in on the way you smile.

“gray. there’s no snow in the forecast.”

with a nod you move to the dryer, and he can hear the machine is running. in that moment, his love for you hits hard, and before he can think he’s following you to the laundry space, insisting on a few more kisses before he puts the warmed shirt on.

-

“good to see you again, detective.” he reaches for your hand to shake it, polite. a slight tremble to his fingers. his _bare_ fingers.

“where are your gloves?” is your response.

at first, he just blinks, then pulls his hand back. shoves it into his coat pocket. he can only offer a shrug before you’re patting down your own coat, searching the pockets for something.

when you uncover them, they’re deep within the confines of your outerwear. three inside pockets have already been searched when you yank them to the surface, waving them a bit to shake the lint off before offering them over. the lieutenant blinks again, something like uncertainty playing on his lips as he glances at the proffered pair.

“well, come on, then,” you say, holding them up again, pushing them towards the hand that had offered to shake in the first place.

“i don’t want to take your spares,” he starts, and you have to scoff.

“you’re not taking them, i’m giving them,” you laugh out, shaking your head. “i always have a pair of extra gloves. i’m always cold and they’re good to have. i’ve got three more pairs just like it at home, sized up for comfort, and you could take every one of them if it means your hands don’t turn blue. take ‘em. trust me, lieu, _take_ ‘em.”

he’s boggled, you can tell. you don’t know why, and it’s for long enough that you roll your eyes, and without a thought push forward, grab his wrist with your hand. it’s how you end up curling his fingers down over the offering.

“here. the day is still young, and we can save your fingers if we work fast.”

and they’re great gloves. he kind of sings their praises the rest of the day, and you just chuckle at his words before helping him adjust them on his hands. you’re glad you size up, because his hands are bigger than yours, and they fit snug, tight. _warm_.

he keeps them. you insist on it.

-

he heaves out a shudder, and his blankets are pulled down even tighter over his shoulders. he’s in three layers, with a down comforter, and it’s still not enough to push the feeling back.

it settles over him, like fog. one moment, he’s waking up for work, and the next, he’s curling in on himself. one hand pushing against the scar like it’s the off button.

he’s so… he’s so cold. he’s lost so much blood, he can’t move, he can’t think, and he’s so goddamn _cold_. all he can see is bright white, all he can hear is steady beeping, and all he can think about is the way that he can’t get warm. he _can’t_ get warm. they chill him on purpose and then bring him back up to room temp, and he feels like he’s in a fucking freezer.

another sharp press, one that makes him hiss against the pull of scar tissue. it pushes the bright white away, brings him back to the present. his knees are up to his chest, and the insistent buzz of his phone against the nightstand tries its best to help him emerge.

“mike?” you’re coming back from the bathroom when you see him, curled up, and immediately your hands are on him. you’re grabbing the second blanket from the foot of the bed, the weighted one with the fleece cover, and with a little grunt you’re pulling it over before settling in beside him. “mike, sweetheart, i’m here.”

your hands go to work. rubbing up and down the bare skin you can see, moving through the layers to use friction and build up some heat.

the phone stops buzzing. and you’re curled alongside him, pressing kisses to his hair. your hand reaches for his and pulls his fingers up so you can kiss the knuckles.

“five minutes,” you say gently.

he nods, eyes squeezing shut as you wrap around him.

“i’m here. let’s get you warm.”

-

“i’m always cold, too,” dodds admits one day, while the two of you are hunched over a case file. special victims and homicide usually don’t coordinate this often, but homicides are up this month and liv insisted on taking on of the cases that would’ve fallen across his desk. he’d come over personally to tell her what’d been found, what’d been checked out what hadn’t. had paired the two of you up for the transition while she handled some meeting at one police plaza. 

“hmm?” your finger is moving across one of the documents, your eyes following it before you glance up at him. he’s standing up straight now, and you watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets, elbows flapping a little as he shifts.

“just. you mentioned, last time i saw you. that you’re always cold,” he says, and he doesn’t quite stumble over his words. he’s trained too well for that. but you hear the hitch at the top of the statement, and watch as he doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, glancing down at the case file again. “it gets bad for me in the winter. always have a chill.”

suddenly realization hits you, and you smile at him, standing up straight again, closing the case file and picking it up to hold against your chest. “i just have poor circulation,” you say, shrugging. “i’ve macgyvered a lot of tricks to keep me sane when winter comes around.”

and it makes him chuckle, thankfully. his hand lifts to his head, moves through his hair, and you’re watching the movement without thinking about it. how it makes his short brown locks flop forward a little over his forehead. now you have to duck your head, avoid his gaze, and try not to think about how good he looks with that blue dress shirt.

“willing to share some of your tricks with homicide? in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation.”

and _that_ makes you snort.

“maybe not with homicide,” you laugh. “but with you, lieutenant dodds, no question.”

“mike,” he returns immediately, and it makes your tongue feel a little thick in your mouth.

“r-right. mike.”

-

you’re undercover, and it’s… the worst. third night in a row. not a text to be seen, a call to be heard from. he’s worried, and he’s chilled, and the apartment is surely roasting as he tries to fight the air from outside that insists on leaking in.

it’s been hard to sleep. hard to close his eyes without thinking about what could go wrong. he knows the risks of the job, better than almost anyone, but it feels like he’s walking on eggshells the next few days, trying to direct his squad while your safety sits in the back of his mind.

and liv is with you. that makes him feel better, but makes the tightness in his chest amplify. the thought of losing you both in one fell swoop makes his eyes cross. but he can’t linger on it, he can’t, and by the fifth day he’s taken to stealing your fuzzy socks for a third layer on his feet.

then he gets a text, that fifth night. it’s from sonny, an update, and he’s grateful until he reads the words “concussion” and “bellevue.” 

outside the wind is howling. he can feel the tremors start before he’s even begun to move. but he grits his teeth, not letting the outside air see his trepidation. mike starts moving, starts layering up, and he’s willing to face any winter night if it means that he’ll be there for you.

when he arrives, and you see him, there’s visible relief on your features. you look haunted, exhausted, like you’ve just been undercover for the past week and haven’t eaten since you started. it makes mike’s anger bubble up, but he’s stopped by the way you reach for him.

“i’m here,” he tells you, and you chuckle, burying your face into the front of his coat. his arms wrap around you easily, pulling you tight against him. “i’ve got you.”

“you’re so _warm_ ,” you groan out, and his chuckle chokes up, his nose pressing into your hair as you grip him. 

-

you start dating in the late moments of spring, after a couple months of dancing around it. a winter of trading secrets to keep hands and feet from turning blue turns into a wonderful friendship, and with that friendship feelings soon blossom.

and after all, it’s easy to fall in love with him. anyone could, you’re certain, looking at him from a distance. you take a glance at mike dodds and you see what everyone does. the brave cop, injured in the line of duty. the incredible lieutenant, who runs homicide with ease. the good man, who smiles at everyone he can, fighting for what’s right. the son of the chief, making his own path.

and then you see a little bit more, the stuff under the surface.

you see the way that he is never shy of curling up close, his touch almost always a full-body one. the nights get hot and stifling, but he’s always under the blankets. you see the way he picks and chooses socks with intense concentration, never afraid to grab two pairs instead of one. you watch the summer months pass and fall come even closer, and that space between his eyebrows furrows more and more.

and then there’s the conversation. as october hits, and you can see your own breath in the mornings, mike asks to talk to you.

he seems shaky. you can’t tell what it is that has him trembling, but your hand reaches out for his on instinct, pulling both of his hands into yours to warm them up.

and that gesture seems to be what pushes him to speak at all.

“a couple of years ago i got hurt on the job,” he starts, and you watch, intently. your own brow furrows as he describes waking up that first night in the hospital, dad and liv and squad around him, and feeling nothing but the chill.

“i couldn’t escape it. i couldn’t do anything. and when my body got worse before it got better, i was trapped.”

part of it was the fever, he tells you. there were moments he was delirious, an infection after the surgery almost wrecking his body. part of it was the blood loss, his body having to fight to rebuild what had gone missing from the bullet, from the operating room. part of it was the room itself, a faulty thermostat sending the whole hall into the sixties.

“nothing seemed to help. but… i managed to recover,” he admitted lowly. his voice is bitter, and you find yourself pulling his fingers to your lips, kissing his palm. because in that moment you’re hit with how close you came to losing him before you ever found him.

he tells you how he doesn’t feel it all the time. how spring, summer, and even the start of fall is okay. and then the temperatures start dropping, the sun starts to fade, and in winter he locks up. the cold sinks into his skin, and.

“all i can think about is that damn room. i go to therapy, i talk through what i can. my therapist tells me this is a hump, a mental block, but. i don’t know if it’ll ever end. if the cold will ever stop sending me into a... spiral.”

he’s frustrated. his hand is gripping yours back tight, and before you can stop yourself you’re sliding out of your side of the dining room table and slipping into his lap. you pull him against you, running your fingers through soft brown hair. you don’t let go of his hand, you can’t, and you feel his shoulders shake as he fights back the tears, face pressed into your chest.

and you… you hold each other. for a little while.

the minutes pass by. you’re uncertain what to do, besides assure him that you’ll never let him go. those promises are whispered into his hair, his ear, against his lips as you kiss him.

“i’m proud of you” is said a lot. you hope he hears it, believes it. because in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of this man you’re so lucky to call yours, a man fighting a battle he’s so scared of losing, a man who faces months on end with his chin held high. he’s unsure if it’ll ever come to an end, but you know that one day, it could. you’re gonna see that day, you’re certain of it. you tell him that, too.

and when the silence stretches on, the two of you in each other’s arms – when he comes back to himself, you tilt his chin so he can look up at you, holding his jaw with a small smile.

“so. what i’m hearing is that we’re gonna need a fireplace when we move in together.”

it shocks a laugh out of him. “what?”

“well, if we’re gonna stay warm, central heating and a fireplace will help do the trick. i’m not going anywhere, mike dodds, so you better start house hunting now.” you have a grin on your face, big and bright and bold, and when he looks up at you again he’s stunned into chuckles. leaning forward to press a kiss over your heart as he shakes his head.

-

winter comes. steadily. gently. like the hush falling over the crowd. and mike dodds hates every second of it.

he can feel it creeping up his spine – the inevitable chill that lingers, stretches its fingers over his shoulders and grabs him. october is gone, november is here, and he lets out a shaky gasp each time a breeze hits him wrong.

he wants to yell out. holds the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. but he doesn’t. he just lifts his chin. he pushes on, he handles it.

he is michael dodds, isn’t he? the son of the chief, the brave soldier. and yet, he fears the turn of the season.

the days keep coming. one after the other. nights get longer, get unending, get colder. 

but this winter something is different. this winter he has you. and the icy grip that the season has starts to fade with time. with time, with time, with time. with therapy, with talking, with time, with time.

with you, your hand in his, and time.


End file.
